A Drabble A Day Keeps the Daleks Away
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: A little thing I am doing with a friend, where we each give each other a daily prompt and write a drabble. Cateogry and genres will change from day to day.
1. Sunday

_**A little thing I am doing with a friend where we prompt each other to write drabbles, but I got sick and didn't do Sundays, so double post. I don't own Narnia..**_

_**Sunday Drabble Prompt: **_

_**Fandom:Narnia**_

_**Character(s):Aslan**_

_**Prompt:Aslan turns human for a day. He is very confused. **_

!

He had to admit, this wasn't originally part of his plans. It was supposed to work a lot better, and it had, in his mind. No one was supposed to see him because he was invisible. No embarrassing wandering about, no trying to get used to standing up. No strange waist-coats or pants. He wasn't exactly supposed to end up as a person.

And now, sitting on the rattling, shaking, roaring-like-a-lion train, he was getting a lot of strange looks. He wondered what he did wrong. Were the pants a queer colour? Was everything smaller than it should be? Was his nose abnormally large? He crossed his eyes, trying to see down his face, to where he's fairly certain most human noses are. He couldn't see it and, for a moment, panics.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I still have my nose, yes?" he asked the nearest woman, a grumpy, grandmotherly type-the kind usually full of opinions and not afraid to share them with others. The woman smoothed out her lavender dress and gave him an annoyed look.

"Of course you've still got your nose, boy-where _else _would it be? On your hand? Honestly!" She leaned in, sniffing the air around him. "Are you intoxicated? What is wrong with you?"

"I apologise, ma'am. I am still getting used to this body, you see. I'm used to being a lion, with a lion's nose and a lion's body."

"A lion! What in the devil is _wrong _with you, you odd man? What is your name? I have half a mind to report you to the driver right now. What is your name?"

"Aslan." he said cheerfully enough. The woman gave him another disgusted look, as if he'd said a particularly nasty cuss word. People were beginning to stare, a little boy looking up, with curiosity, from his book.

"Aslan! Aslan! What kind of name is _Aslan_? You've made that up, haven't you? Go on, admit it! What is your name, boy-and don't lie, it's not becoming."

"But I've told you, my name is Aslan, and I used to be a lion until a few hours ago, and now I've got a waist-coat and pants and a rather small nose that I can't quite see, and no tail, which is _rather _odd, I've no idea how you humans can stand having no tail-"

"You, sir, are a drunkard! Off, off! Get off the train right now, or I'll call a guard! Get off, now! Now!" she shrieked, reaching for her handbag. She began shooing him off with it, smacking him round the head with the heavy bag and continuing to shriek, her voice quickly gaining a thin, reedy, Irish accent as she shrieked longer and louder. "_Off! Off!_ Get _off!_"

"Alright, alright." he said, clambering from his seat as the train stopped, ignoring the others that watched him, and the woman still screaming behind him. Sighing, and with no real direction to go, he headed left, up onto the street, in the hopes of a nicer person to explain to him _why_, exactly, it was that people seemed to have no tails. The woman on the train wasn't much help, really,

If only he could see his nose, this day might have started off better.

!

_**This is my friend, Jane's, prompt that I gave her for Sunday. I haven't changed a word-it is ALL hers. **_

Sunday Drabble Prompt: Wheelchair

Fandom: Sherlock

Character(s): Any

Unspoken

The humid summer air made it hard to breathe as John Watson stumbled into St. Clements Hospital. He strode up to the kindly old nurse sitting at the Receptionists desk, and gave her a small smile.

"'ello Bea. How is business today? Treating you well I hope." He tiredly spoke in her relative direction. Recently he'd been taking extra shifts at the Surgery to cover the hospital and insurance bills.

She gave him a quaint upwards twitch of her lips in return and slid the Visitors' form in his direction to sign-in with his name, time, and date. He quickly flew through the familiar routine and turned as she pointed a gracefully ageing finger in the direction that he always went. To a certain room. To _his _Sherlock.

Room 86. A bad number. A bad, bad, horribly wonderful number.

The hospital room was like most. Bland white sheets and walls paired with pastel green floor that brings back old, long forgotten memories of family Christmas's gone wrong. John glances around the room trying to spy its current occupant. Said man is sitting in his wheelchair looking out the window almost wistfully; his head tilted like a confused dog, almost like a concrete parking lot is hard to comprehend.

What happened to this glorious man? A man, who once was the most brilliant-No, _still _is the most brilliant man in the entire world.

John taps a rhythm on the hard plastic of the bedframe behind him to warn Sherlock that he is here. John doesn't want to frighten him. Sherlock jumps a bit then settles and turns his wheelchair to face the other man. He gestures for John to sit on the bed. So he does.

Sherlock had a seizure. The nicotine mixed with the insomnia and malnutrition finally fought back. John knew it would one day. "I could've helped. I should've stopped this. I knew what it would leaf to. I _am _ a doctor." Are constant thoughts in John's head. Sherlock lost his ability to speak and walk, but at least he still maintains most of his extraordinary intelligence.

John taps a series of letters in Morse code on the bedframe. They translate into, "How are the treatments?" and "You aren't scaring the nurses away are you?" Sherlock gives one of his trademark grimaces which makes him look like he swallowed one of his own experiments and taps back. "At least I can be intimidating _and _mute." John stifles a small giggle with his beige jumper sleeve.

"Your face will be stuck in a frown constantly if you keep doing that." John dotes.

"It looks like your face already as." Sherlock states as if obvious.

Before John had a chance to tap back, Sherlock states one more thing.

Eight taps. Three words. John slips on a flustered smile and leans forward to capture Sherlock's lips in a bruising kiss.

(A/N: Hey Lane-Lane, I know you fell sick and hope you get better! I don't normally write fanfiction, but everybody needs to start somewhere, right? It's pretty rushed and OOC, but whatev. I'm expecting my Narnia fanfic tomorrow.)


	2. Monday

_**Monday Drabble Prompt:**_

_**Fandom: BBC Sherlock**_

_**Chracter(s): Kid!Sherlock & Mycroft**_

_**Prompt: Sherlock telling Mycroft that he wants to be a pirate when he grows up. **_

_**I'm a bit new to Sherlock, so this might seem a bit OOC. Sorry. Don't own Sherlock of any kind, in any way. **_

!

He had always been a strange child. That was something anyone could tell you-parents, teachers, other kids. _Sherlock was a strange child_. An odd child. A rather thoughtful one, too, seeing things at angles that even left his primary teachers boggled, scratching their heads for answers. Not sure if he was a genius or just crazy, they passed him on to the next grade, unsure of what to do. And occasionally, Sherlock acted like a rather normal child, with normal ideas, just _worse. _This was one of those times.

"I'm going to be a pirate," he announced, sitting down next to Mycroft, his brother. The two boys had been forced together due to being more or less the same age and the youngest two in their building. Not that either boy socialised willingly. "I have officially decided it, just now. I am going to be a pirate. When I grow up, I mean. I'm going to be a pirate and have a boat. Would you like to be my first mate?"

Mycroft didn't even bother looking up from his book. This was the third time this week that Sherlock had decided what he was going to 'officially, when I grow up, going to do and do it better than anyone else in the entire world because I am Sherlock Holmes'. It was something Mycroft had gotten used to, living in the same bedroom as the strange, curly-haired boy, listening to his madcap fantasies.

"You are not," Mycroft said calmly. "Why would I be your first mate, anyway? I'm too good for that."

"I _am_. I _am _going to be a pirate. And you _will _be my first mate, because you sort of already _are _my first mate, but in a different sort of way. Besides, since I will be a pirate, I will be the best pirate in existence, even more than Black Beard, and the Queen will reward me with a medal and money-which I will humbly refuse-and I will be the envy of everyone."

"You?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Humble? Don't make me laugh. You don't know the _meaning_ of the word humble. You are one of the most stuck-up, self-absorbed people I know. And I know a lot of people! "

"I only said I'd _act_ humble, for the Queen. Of course I'm too great to be humble like normal people. Like _you_. I'll be the best, least humble pirate there is and everyone will love me."

"Right." said Mycroft slowly. "Remind me again, are you sure we're related?"

"Unfortunately, yes. A shame, I know, being related to someone who is _clearly _your intellectual superior-worse that it is your younger brother-but true. We're related."  
>"Well, you're still not going to be a bloody pirate. You'll probably end up in prison because you've blown something up or another. You <em>are <em>mad enough to do it."

"And what would you do, then?"

"Join the government in some way. Actually _do _something other than terrorising everyone and pretending to be humble. You are a horrible actor anyway, Sherlock. It would never work-everyone would know you're a stuck-up prat with social issues." He went back to his book. Behind him, Sherlock huffed, considering his brother's words.

"Well, I could still be a pirate if I wanted to. They still exist, you know."

"Oh dear Lord, just shut up, will you? I'm trying to read!"

"I don't think God is listening, Mycroft. Besides, he won't like that you've told him to shut off-not that it matters, seeing as he's most likely not even real to begin with."

"You're just full of opinions, aren't you?"

"They aren't opinions, Croft. They're fact and truths." Mycroft groaned and went back to his book once more, wishing for the hundredth time today that he'd been born an only child.

"I'm going to be a pirate," said Sherlock before getting to his feet and walking away.

"I'm going to kill you," Mycroft mumbled to himself.


End file.
